Snow Advisory

This was supposed to miss us, but radio warning that the shit is going to hit the fan. Two storms in 36 hours, could be 8 inches or more. I need to work on wood, call B at the college and he agrees to get me a jug of whiskey, the only thing I didn't get yesterday (if I'm going to be snowed in I'll need drink). Avoiding a trip to town allows me to work outside, two inches of new powder, temps hover around 20. Suited up and out the door at 8, work straight through until 3. Haul six double-splits from the depot, cut them, split half, take it inside and spread it on the floor; split the kindling bucket full, split out starter sticks. Seven more carries out of the hollow to the depot, hot tea break, then the seven carries home, ricked. As prepared as I can be. Rick the sticks inside, sweep up. B comes over with the whiskey and we have a late afternoon espresso, talk about writing, as McCord has McPherson & Company interested in a book of mine. Isolating a book in this flow of posts is an interesting idea. I've been thinking about it. One thing that we have here, is a series of overlapping books, The Ridge Book, The Fox Book, The Frog Book, The Wrack Book; another thing is a continuum, that, at this point, can contain anything. I'm really dirty, didn't cleanup yesterday; after B leaves, I heat water, take a sponge bath standing at the kitchen sink, near the cookstove, wash my hair, shave. Feeling nearly human. It's a gift to be clean. Some of those Norwegian boys at Janitor College didn't take off their long underwear from December to March, talk about high. Sometimes we had to intervene. It wasn't homo-erotic, it was sadistic. When I got seriously interested in the sense of smell, all those years on the farm and ranch, all those animals, hundreds over the years, breeding, all that display, all that exchange of scent. Clearly, something was going on. I have a very good sense of smell, always have had, I knew the normal smell of most of the animals and could discern a difference, a language of receptors. Jammed my index finger, left hand, moving some frozen billets, I don't understand what happened and I was there. I tripped and reached out my hand, my index finger is longer so it took the blow, probably, something like that, and it hurt; ripped off my glove to see whatever the damage, and the finger is slightly kinked. I'm uncomfortable enough, my feet are frozen, my gloves are wet and stiff, I need to deal with this. Grab the offending finger and pull sharply. This really hurts, we're talking tears, but fades away. Losing everything is nothing squared. It's hard not to imagine they expected me gone. My claim on anything is very circumstantial. It's only my readers that keep me alive. I'm just a figment, otherwise. I assume you know what I mean. We could talk about it, or not. Being able to express yourself.